


a fair wind

by chalmskinn



Series: it's been a long time coming [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vietnam, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Vietnam War, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1881006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalmskinn/pseuds/chalmskinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I feel wealthy when I look at you in the sunlight. You are my pretty, golden thing.” He sighs, stroking the blond hair, “I could wax poetic about you for days when I love you. But we do not have days.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>The brothers spend valuable time together before being sent into the bloody unknown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a fair wind

**Author's Note:**

> Crosby, Stills and Nash's 'Wooden Ships' primarily inspired this, with additional help from CSNY's 'Deja Vu' (despite it not being on the album they are listening to).

The night is inky black, dotted with bright constellations and the blinking lights of aeroplanes and cars and trucks and helicopters and the USO show occurring within the vast, dark vicinity. The air is thick and humid and clings to skin in a sheen of damp, tepid sweat that does not glisten when rogue light catches, it merely sits and grows warmer in temperature and begins to drip off facial features and run down skin.

The barracks are sparsely lit and sparsely occupied at this point in time. Legs hang from the roof of one of these rectangular structures and matches are repeatedly lit and thrown to the dusty tarmac floor. A record player has been carefully placed on a window sill below where the two pairs of legs swing from. Quietly, Crosby, Stills and Nash play on the record player – loud enough for the two bodies on the roof to hear the words and the music over the excitement Ann-Margret’s presence evoked. Ribbons of pale smoke curl and climb into the heavy air from the mouth of the ghoul-like figure sitting upright on the roof. He smooths down his soft black hair and passes the joint to the brawny man lying on his back.

“I had a dream I was in mother’s garden. The snow was melting, the sun was shining and there was blossom on the trees.” The black haired man presses his dry lips together and murmurs, “It was pretty. I like pretty things.”

“It’s a good thing for me you’re pretty,” Says the blond man, sitting himself upright and leaning his heavy head on the broad left shoulder of the paler man. “I also like pretty things. It’s not often we get to see them anymore. It’s just burning and blood and mutilated corpses.”

“I like it when the sunlight catches your hair and your skin and you look ethereal, as if Midas had touched you, yet you still moved. I feel wealthy when I look at you in the sunlight. You are my pretty, golden thing.” He sighs, stroking the blond hair, “I could wax poetic about you for days when I love you. But we do not have days.”

The larger man’s lips curl into a smile, “But we do not have days. And what are the days you do not love me?”

“Thursdays. And Monday mornings.” He sighs and the corner of his mouth quirks. “Days I feel little to no emotion. Days where hate and bitterness consume me. Days where I allow myself to think too much.” He bends his legs at the knees, angling them to the left and raising his right knee upwards. The blond head on his shoulder begins to stir with laughter. “What?”

“You mean every day, then?” He rumbles with laughter and scratches his honey coloured beard; a slender, pale and elegant hand pinching his nose and pulling upwards. “Ow! I’m sorry. It was funnier in my head!”

A hush falls upon them and they listen to their breathing, which did not sound too heavy until it was their focus, dulling the liquid-like guitars of their music to a barely audible haze of sound.

Thor reaches his arm up and places his thick hand upon Loki’s ribcage, feeling the gentle up-and-down motion that accompanies breathing, and he senses himself turn into nothing more than muscle mass and warmth, and he begins to melt into the uncomfortable gravel roof as Loki’s clammy hand blankets his own and softly traces his rough knuckles with callused fingertips, worn from writing, guitar playing, and trigger pulling.

A roar of cheers erupts from far away and the blond-haired man catches the black-haired man’s green-eyed gaze, his pupils endless black holes that transport him to a different world. He kisses his sharp jaw and moves his hand to touch the end of a lock of ebony hair, manoeuvring himself further down the long pale body, so he can angle himself in a way that will allow him to press his chapped lips to Loki’s pink, bitten and bloody lips, and curtain his ghostly face with his own sun-bleached tendrils of hair, in order to mask them from the humid night and the nights afterwards.

Thor’s face is framed by Loki’s hands, which stroke his beard with their thumbs as they become attached at the mouth, stroking in rhythm to their deep breathing. Their damp foreheads come together as people begin to return to the barracks with booming voices and poor singing. Loki pecks Thor once more and as the tips of their noses touch, tells him, “You are not allowed to leave me tomorrow.”

Thor’s sky-blue eyes suddenly turn to glass and his breathing halts. “Nor you. Do not leave me alone here.”

Loki’s thumbs trace the heights of Thor’s face and he smiles sadly, “I’ll certainly try not to.” Tears are wiped away and words are spoken once more, “Do not leave _me_ alone here.”

“I promise I will not.” Thor’s promise is sealed with a kiss, and the two men stand. The black-haired man climbs down from the roof, carefully removes his LP from the record player and disappears into his living space. The blond-haired man’s hair blows in the wind and he wipes away a tear, sitting himself back down and hanging his legs loosely over the side of the structure. He lies back. He closes his eyes. He breathes.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from CSN's 'Wooden Ships'. I blame Apocalypse Now and the Suzie Q scene for this. I also blame something else for some of the dialogue, but I can't place what... I've probably done some stealing.
> 
> If you'd be interested in a sequel, please let me know!


End file.
